


bruce and the bat

by princehamlet



Category: Batman - Fandom, DC Comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 06:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princehamlet/pseuds/princehamlet
Summary: an entirely self indulgent  fanfic about  bruce wayne's journey with dissociative identity disorder.





	bruce and the bat

**Author's Note:**

> bruce and the bat are both nonbinary and they go by they/them pronouns in this fic!

_When I first went, the people of Gotham asked what my purpose was. What I was trying to accomplish. I told them: _to protect._ This seemed to calm their fears, to an extent; but I never said who it was I was intending to protect._

* * *

In the morning, Bruce woke up. As always -- and as was getting worse and worse every night -- their bones ached and their muscles cried out in pain with even the slightest shuffle against the soft sheets. Immediately, their face twisted in a grimance; thank goodness for Alfred, who was already making his way in with morning tea and breakfast. First, however, he paused to open the curtains, soft sunlight greeting Bruce's face. "Morning, Alfred," they said tiredly, raising a weary arm to rub their eyes. 

"Good morning, sir. " He replied politely, setting the tray by their bedstand. There was a formality and emotionlessness about him. "How are we feeling after last night's skirmish?"  
"You'll have to ask them," Bruce said, stretching their arms over their head and yawning. "They left me to deal with the soreness."  
Alfred seemed a little taken aback by this, brows quirking upward. "Oh, Master Bruce -- I was unaware that it was you I was speaking with. It seems as though it has mostly been The Bat who has been fronting this past week..." Seeming calmed by this, Alfred began to pour the tea into the floral-patterned china. "They've come awfully close to cornering Black Mask, you know."

Bruce was warmed with the fact Alfred was happy to see them. They were happy to see Alfred, too; it felt like they had been asleep for ages. They crossed their legs beneath them, reaching for the steaming cup of green tea the moment Alfred was finished pouring it. "I know. I stopped to look at the Batcomputer before I passed out. What's on the agenda for today, Alfred?"  
"Well, sir, you --"  
"Whatever it is, I want you to clear it. I'm staying in bed today." It was a cruel setup for a joke on poor Alfred, all after Bruce had gulped down the tea and pulled the silky comforter back over themself.  
Alfred could only smile sarcastically, a brow quirking upward. Bruce, although in their thirties, still looked to Alfred like the little child that he raised as his own. "You shouldn't postpone anymore of your conferences, sir. It's not polite. People will begin to think you're lazy." 

"Let them think," Bruce said with a groan as they adjusted themself to be laying on their back. Even now, from where they laid in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sports bra, their muscular form was covered with bruises and felt stiff as a rock. "You know, The Bat tends to overexert."  
"I know, sir. I'm the one who tends to their wounds and has to remind them not to _completely_ destroy your body."  
"_Our_ body." Bruce reminded him kindly, a sympathetic look coming to their face for their father figure. "They may have come second, but they still live here."  
"Apt analogy, sir." Alfred smiled back a little, but it was a sad one.  
"I'm sorry, Alfred. I know you didn't ask for _two_ impossible-to-take-care-of handfuls for the price of one."  
"There's no need to apologize. After all, they've been there since you were a child, sir. I'm quite used to it now." It was a sad admittance; one that made Alfred turn his back on Bruce. He began to walk towards the closet. "And whether you like it or not, I'm getting your clothes ready for today, should your mind change." 

"I doubt it'll change," Bruce said coolly, and began to eat breakfast. A moment of silence stretched between them and Alfred before they inquired, "Alfred. What was The Bat like when I was young?" They could hardly remember.  
The question made Alfred stop short as he was pulling a hangar off the rack, body language contemplative from what Bruce could see. It was another silent moment before Bruce heard his words. "... you _were_ only eight, you know, sir. I was unsure of what was normal behavior for a child in the face of such trauma. You seemed so... adult. Closed off. I worried endlessly, but I realize now that that was _certainly_ The Bat." Alfred threw another sad smile at Bruce over his shoulder. "Your _serious face_ hasn't changed a bit, sir."

Bruce let out a quick exhale of a chuckle through their nose. "No, I'm sure it hasn't." They set the china cup back on the tray, face changing back to that selfame serious one, eyes far away and thoughtful. "... I have them to thank for so much. I don't know how I would still be here today if it weren't for them."  
"I'm sure many people in Gotham feel the same, sir." Alfred allowed, which made Bruce smile a bit. Decidedly, they got up out of bed (albeit with grunts and groans) in order to put on the outfit that Alfred was picking out. 

"Your mind changed?" Alfred guessed.  
"Sure -- I'll have it your way." Bruce said, wincing as Alfred helped them put their button-up shirt on. Their arms did _not_ want to bend that way. "But only if you help me with one thing, Alfred."  
"Of course, sir."  
"Next time you see them -- thank them for me." Their eyes were serious. "I don't think I've ever thanked them before. Just for being here."  
"I would be happy to."  
"Thank you, Alfred."

* * *

When Bruce came back from the conference, Alfred recognized their stride: the moment the doors behind them closed, they were pulling off their tie and stripping off their jacket, their face not revealing even the slightest hint of emotion. "Good evening, sir, how did it go?" Alfred asked them.  
The Bat didn't reply; it's clear the question was moot, since those sorts of things were mostly things that Bruce attended to. Alfred took the coat from them so that he could hang it up. He saw that they were headed straight for the entrance to the Batcave.  
"Already off to work, sir?" The butler couldn't help but ask.  
"Yes," The Bat said, unrelenting in their stride. Alfred practically had to chase after them in order to have a conversation: The Bat wasn't much for talking, which was the reason why Alfred tended to find relief and solace during the moments he was able to take care of Bruce. He followed the vigilante intently down the slippery stairs of the lair, all the way to where they were just setting up shop at the Batcomputer, beginning to run tests of the drug sample they'd picked up at Black Mask's place. 

"Sir, I crave a word with you."  
"Not now."  
"Rather, I should say -- Bruce asked me to relay a message to you."  
For a millisecond, they stopped typing. Then, they resumed again. Alfred could tell he'd piqued their pointy ears. "What'd they say." The Bat bit.  
"They asked me to thank you for everything you've done for them over all these years. I suppose they were feeling sentimental, but ... they wanted you to know how grateful they were." Alfred said, and then added with his normal flavor for sarcasm, "Although I imagine they weren't _too_ grateful with the state you left their body in this morning. The poor fellow could barely get out of bed without looking as though they'd just been shot."  
There was a pause. "Hm." is all they said, which was sometimes much more than The Bat ever said. An informative notification appeared on screen, and instantly The Bat stood and turned from their chair in order to pull their cape and cowl off the rack. "I'm going out." They told Alfred. 

For a while, Alfred watched them suit up: there was no groan in pain or hesitancies like there was in Bruce this morning. Their expression was blank, even though he was sure their bruised body protested in pain. It made the butler cringe internally, thinking of how much pain Bruce would have to push through the next morning -- and again and again and again. "Sir?" Alfred called to them as they made their way toward the Batmobile.  
"What, Alfred?" It wasn't an unkind response, but truly, The Bat was not the best at conversations. It made them antsy, impatient -- Alfred had half a mind to believe this quality of The Bat's had sprung about from how uncomfortable and frightened Bruce got as a child from telling reporters and policemen about the incident.  
"Why _do_ you continue to do what you do?" Alfred wanted to know. "After all... if you don't mind me saying ... Bruce is an adult now. They are, daresay, trying as hard as you are to change Gotham for the better ... from the outside. To protect the people of this city from injustice and unlawfulness." In short, he was asking: _why do you, an alter Bruce has had for going on three decades, still exist?_

The Bat was quiet a long moment. They looked at Alfred with their eyes that were piercing and white beneath the cowl, and yet which somehow managed to be reassuring and kind all at once. "I don't exist to protect Gotham." A gloved hand raised; they tapped the bat on their chest, also indicating their heart. "I exist to protect Bruce." Alfred watched as they climbed into the car, turned the keys in the ignition, and were gone. 

The remark made Alfred think. He thought about how when Bruce was young -- when The Bat was far from being the prominent alter, like they were today -- they had such a strong sense of injustice. For obvious reasons, really. Every unfair trial they heard about made them almost unconsolingly upset; seeing the homelessness and poverty that plagued the streets of Gotham made their emotions boil; even simple bullies at the school they briefly attended practically led to a suspension because of a fight they picked in response to it. 

The Bat fought crime to prevent another child from having to witness their parents be murdered in an alleyway.  
The Bat, in a sense, was what Bruce wished they could be. Someone who didn't get tired, who didn't fear: who could fix things, help people without blinking an eye. Someone who wasn't pestered with emotions that were painful and saddening and distracting. Someone who could always beat up the bullies and save the people.  
The Bat emerged to help Bruce cope with a reality that no innocent eight year old should ever experience: an overpowered superhero who was always right on time, just like the comic books Bruce read when they were even younger than that.

The Bat worked to make the world safer for Bruce to simply _exist_ in; a servant borne of one person's longing for a better world because of an indescribable pain that no one should have to carry. In a way, wasn't it every good person's wish to be the sole person to fix the world? To overstep the idea that you were just a single individual, unable to make an impact on a larger scale? The Bat was doing it.

Suddenly, Alfred remembered the first time a reporter had ever cornered The Bat while they were on a case. They looked uncomfortable -- Alfred could tell from years of interaction; to many, The Bat may have just looked as blank and unapproachable as they always did. The reporter had held a microphone up to their face, giddiness and terror coating her words. "They call you _Batman_, you know! How do you feel about that?"  
The Bat didn't say anything. They didn't really feel like a man, and weren't sure if Bruce felt like one, either. They stayed silent.  
"Okay...!" The reporter awkwardly continued on, noting that this was not a very talkative subject. "Well, Batman, I'll let you get back to your -- um -- Batman-ing -- but before you go, the people of Gotham want to know: what's your purpose? I mean, what are you trying to accomplish with all this?" She inquired, gesturing vaguely to their armored bodysuit.

Batman answered soon after: "To protect."

Alfred smiled because he felt like he finally understood what they had meant that day. And he smiled because he knew that every time he worried about Bruce -- every time he worried when they got emotionally closed off or physically exhausted or couldn't take all this busy billionaire scheduling bullshit -- there was someone even stronger than Alfred out there protecting them. Fighting to ease any worry that might prevent them from happiness or comfort. Doing what most people wouldn't dare to do, which is try to overcome one's own individuality in favor of working overtime to make the world a better place. Slowly, Alfred climbed the stairs again, for once feeling solace in the fact that Gotham was protected tonight.


End file.
